


you give me a quiet mind

by northsiders36



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Parades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8491174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northsiders36/pseuds/northsiders36
Summary: Who would have thought someone could even have any problems after winning the World Series and breaking a 108-year-old curse? Kris Bryant sure does, and it mostly involves kissing Anthony Rizzo, overthinking everything, and SOMEONE inconsiderately twerking half-dressed on TV and doing irreparable damage to Kris' calm in the process.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rossy, Dex and Rizz were on SNL and I HAD FEELINGS. JUST THROW ME INTO THE SUN AND BE DONE WITH IT.
> 
> Mildly dubious consent tag is because our boys don't talk about their relationship. Assume they're still mostly on the same baffled page throughout. :):):)

**you give me a quiet mind**

* * *

 

Kris and Rizzo kiss, and it's amazing, and it's absolutely not a big deal.

Kris has never spent much time thinking about kissing Anthony Rizzo. Ugh, that's a lie. Rewind. He's not thought about it beyond a couple of dreams with unsatisfactory endings, because that's just what happens when you're shoved in with a group of people and you see them day in and day out. Okay, yes, he has thought about Rizzo kissing him _in the abstract,_ sort of, only explicit in passing by accident, but —

Ugh, his moral core won't even let him lie to himself convincingly. Rewind again. Kris _has_ thought about Rizzo kissing him. But it's just a thought. Three thoughts. Three extended thoughts that Kris is proud didn't end up with his hand sneaking into his pants on all three occasions. Two out of three isn't bad. Look, Kris is complicated, okay?

All that besides, when Kris has thought about it - to two climaxes that make his cheeks heat occasionally in the locker room when Rizzo looks at him _like that_ , all dark eyes and optimism and cheeky winks — it's been just that. Bada bing, bada boom, bada Kris has come in his pants like a teenager twice, oh god. There's been no planning or plotting or lingering, because it's never gonna happen, so why would Kris put his heart on the fucking line over a couple of super hot jerk-off sessions?

If he _had_ sat down and thought about it, let it hover above _wow thinking about Rizzo naked in my arms was hot_ into something more dangerous, Kris might have thought about it being a big deal. If he let himself want it long enough. So he doesn't. He doesn't think about it, so he doesn't pine for it like a teenager _needing_ the newest phone model.

And it's got to be somewhat the same for Rizzo too, because it's not a big deal. It's _obviously_ not a big deal. During all the chaos of winning, Kris ends up alone with Rizzo in the locker room, just for a minute, maybe two. There's soundproofing throughout the clubhouse, thick padding through the ceilings and walls, and yet the whole atmosphere is drowning in the cacophony of happy cheering. No one's going to sleep tonight, that's for sure.

Kris' mouth feels strange, and that's probably because of the champagne, his first drink in his life, and he's disappointed that he doesn't like it. Staying completely dry until a World Series win always felt like the weirdest vow, like drinking alcohol for the first time is a step on a platform to becoming an adult, and he's probably built it up in his head to be too much of a deal. Kris took that step and doesn't even feel  a day older. Overthinking is overrated, yet Kris can't help himself. He thinks about everything way too much.

Kris is looking in his locker, reaching past his lucky Buddha, fingers casually gracing the cool smooth edge of the statue's stone belly on the way to find the half-bottle of water he left there for later, when Rizzo nudges his hip with his own. Kris briefly falls into his locker door from the motion; he moves to face Rizzo, and Rizzo's beaming, the same stretch of a grin that Kris thinks he's been wearing since he scooped up Martinez's soft ground ball.

Rizzo's smile stretches, impossibly wider, and Kris thinks he's laughing when Rizzo puts a large hand on the back of his neck and moves in. Kris kisses back automatically, swept into it, his whole body thrumming with joy from his hair to the tip of his toes. It doesn't feel like any other first kiss Kris has ever had. It's not tentative or hesitant. It's _hello_ and _we did it_ and _you were there for this most important event of my life_ , and Kris surges into it unable to help himself. His hand as somehow always finds its way slipping down to the solid warm curve of Rizzo's ass, and Rizzo presses into his palms, solid warmth and joy bubbling through his own body in parallel.

The sound of cheering increases in volume and Rizzo pulls back, resting his forehead against Kris', and Kris can feel it through his whole body when Rizzo presses his smile into Kris' cheek.

"We did it," Rizzo says, his words warm against Kris' skin, and Kris takes those words into his chest and holds them there. "I knew we could do it."

"Yeah," Kris says, helpless to elucidate how he's feeling. He thinks their kiss said it best. "Yeah."

Rizzo takes a bouncing step back, making Kris feel sparked by static electricity as his fingers graze down Kris' arm on the movement. Rizzo opens his mouth as if he's going to say something else, but then Ross comes through the door screaming at the top of his lungs and Rizzo just says, "Later," and Kris nods helplessly.

* * *

Later doesn't really come.

It's obviously not a big deal, because Rizzo doesn't act like anything out of the ordinary happened, and he doesn't talk about it, and neither does Kris. Mostly Kris feels like if he says something, the memory would burst, like the moment only existed in a soap bubble hanging perilously mid-air and saying anything would make it disappear. Rizzo acts around him like he always does, talking a mile a minute, throwing his arm around Kris' shoulders comfortingly, and dragging him around to introduce him to the friends and family that made the trip for that fucking _awesome_ game 7, and Kris does the same, even though he's sure his dad has never had an expression on his face _quite_ as knowing as when Rizzo comes over to hug Kris goodbye until the parade.

If anyone on the team or management gets any sleep after the game, Kris doesn't know; everyone seems to be running on sheer adrenaline and the pizza that the Royals sent over. Kris can barely keep still himself as they wait for the buses to come get them. He's on a different bus to Rizzo, which is probably for the best, because Kris doesn't know if he could trust himself to behave. He thinks as soon as he gets the chance, his mouth will want a repeat of how it felt to be against Rizzo's, and that's probably not the best idea in front of the millions — oh god _millions_ — of people watching.

Chicago itself seems to be alive. Sometimes people define Chicago by the buildings and the streets and the curiosities; they list the Windy City's striking architecture, the skyline punctuated by buildings that point to the clouds, the bold shapes of its creations, but Chicago is something else to Kris. Chicago is a breathing pulse of people, the shape of the sway of a crowd, the discordant harmonies of thousands of voices raised in unison.

And better than all of that, Chicago is _baseball_. It's the power and swing of his body against physics in graceful motions, and it's defying gravity with his team at his back, and the ability to change someone's reality with one satisfying _crack_ of a bat against a thundering ball, or a kind word to the press, or a charitable action that's seen by enough people to cause waves instead of small pond ripples. Chicago is a century and more of bad luck, and a century and more of people never, ever giving up.

Chicago is in Kris' heart as he stands on the bus, barely feeling the cold under the buoyant cheers of the crowds, and if a smile could be fixed on someone's face forever, this, Kris thinks, is how it would happen. Chicago is in his eyes as he lets the atmosphere sink into him, through his skin, through his hair, taking as much of it in as he can, letting the scent of the day drench into his consciousness. Chicago is in his ears, ringing sounds of celebration he thinks he'll hear in every joyous moment of his life from now on.

And it's all of those feelings combined that make Kris giddy when he steps off the bus, flinging his arms around as many of his teammates and their family members that he can reach, sharing the momentum of his elation and positive nothing else will ever feel the way this day feels. If this is what getting high from drugs feels like, Kris is starting to understand why addicts get addicted. If it was possible to win a World Series every day, Kris would do it.

Kris talks into microphones and doesn't even really know what he's saying, moves when and where he's prompted for photographs and autographs and interviews, and doesn't have much of time to catch his breath, so he leaps on the first chance of escape, and it turns out that he's not the only one with the same idea — Rizzo's lurking in the locker room too, rifling through his drawers for something.

Kris ambles over in time for Rizzo to pull out an energy bar with a flourish.

"Smart," Kris says, and Rizzo turns to look at him. Kris isn't sure whether the wide smile on Rizzo's face is for him, or just the same one they've all been wearing constantly.

"It occasionally happens to me," Rizzo says. "Hey, Dex said you turned down the SNL invite."

Kris shrugs with one shoulder. "I read the notes, and I—" He squints at Rizzo. "The disappointment in your voice implies you didn't turn it down," he says slowly, suspiciously.

Rizzo's smile impossibly deepens and he shoulder-bumps Kris companionably. "Gotta show off my guns to national TV, man. And Grandpa said he wouldn't do it unless I did, so."

"Ah, peer pressure," Kris says. "I try to stay away."

"Smart," Rizzo says, sliding his energy bar into his pocket.

"It occasionally happens to me," Kris says, and Rizzo shoves at him playfully before wrapping an arm around him. It's a casual gesture, easy. Like it's no big deal. "That crowd, though. That parade. I've never felt anything _like_ that."

"I have," Rizzo says, and Kris lurches to look at him, suddenly jealous in a way he's never felt before. Rizzo laughs like the envy is as clear as a word in a book. "When the Blackhawks got the Stanley Cup, their second one, well before your time here — I took time out to go see their parade. Just walked into the crowd and stood there and closed my eyes. Man. Nothing like a Chicago parade, that's for sure."

"And it was like _that,_ " Kris says, waving his hand in the air like he's conducting a global-sized orchestra, unable to find the right words to encompass the parade.

"Well, maybe like 10% of the feeling," Rizzo allows. His smile is lazy as he looks over at Kris. "I keep thinking I dreamed the whole thing."

"I know what you mean," Kris says. "Winning, and winning like _that_ —"

"Like, the most dramatic way possible. I think Gramps think we did it on purpose, trying to give him a heart attack."

Kris' mouth twists at the idea of Ross being hurt. "I'd have been much happier sweeping Cleveland in four."

"Oh, for sure," Rizzo says, bumping Kris' shoulder with his own. And then, because of _course,_ Rizzo leans in and kisses Kris, like it's no big deal at all, like it's just something they do. Like he has no idea each and every kiss makes Kris feel like Rizzo's electrocuted him. They're opposite pointing magnets, opposite coast people colliding in an impossible way.

Kris drifts a hand over the back of Rizzo's head, careful and searching, and Rizzo shudders gently under his touch. Rizzo's hair is softer than Kris has ever imagined it would be, and the touch makes Rizzo lean in closer, eyes half-closing in pleasure.

"Next year," Rizzo says. "We'll sweep them next year."

Kris nods. Words are difficult. He leans in for another kiss, aiming to replicate Rizzo's air of it being no big deal, and probably missing a little, but Rizzo kisses back anyway, his hands easily resting on Kris' hips like they're meant to be there, and it's the first time in forty-eight hours that Kris has felt anchored to reality. Rizzo's tongue against his is a lifeline, a promise, _this is real, this happened, we're winners, it's not a dream._

"They're in here," Hammel yells, from just out of sight, and their kiss breaks, staccato but still soft. As Hammel moves into view, Kris doesn't move away from Rizzo's anchoring hands, just peers around Rizzo's body to see Hammel smiling too. It's the same grin all of them have been wearing since winning. It may never wear off. "Possibly trying to vulcan mind-meld because they're embarrassing nerds like that," Hammel yells, like there's other people near the room to hear him.

Rizzo pulls away from Kris laughing and flips Hammel the bird. "And this is the traditional Vulcan greeting."

"No, it isn't," Hammel says, and instantly holds up his right hand with his fingers splayed appropriately. "Live long and fucking prosper, Rizz."

"And Hammer called _us_ the nerds?" Kris says, crowding into Rizzo's side so he can feel Rizzo's laugh through his body. Rizzo doesn't pull away, so Kris guesses that's okay. Hammel tugs them off to some other PR stunt, and Kris lets himself be swept along for the ride.

* * *

 Kris probably wouldn't have thought too much more about Rizzo even with all the hot random kissing, but then SNL happens and Kris is too much of a mess to function. At all.

He sees the sketch with Bill Murray first, and Kris bursts to the ceiling with pride. He couldn't catch it live because of dinner with his family, but PR sent him the videos, and Kris casts them to the hotel room TV so he doesn't have to squint at his phone screen. He's enchanted from the first second. There are _his boys,_ his team, his fucking family, on TV and celebrating the win and being abso-fucking-lutely amazing. He watches it on the edge of the hotel bed, his mom and dad on a love seat in the corner of their hotel suite chatting away on Skype to some distant family members who couldn't make the parade, and Kris just swells with pride as the Cubs onscreen terribly sing the song half of Chicago has had stuck in its head for days on end.

And then Kris loads up the second sketch and he wants to die.

At first it's second-hand embarrassment, because there are mechanic strippers, and one of them is possibly Sherlock Holmes, Kris is too buzzed about the idea of his seeing his teammates in this sketch to Google and find out for sure, and no kid of any age wants to be watching people pretending to be strippers in a room with their parents. So Kris is kind of warm with humiliation, and that's before Rossy, Dex and Rizzo turn up.

In tight white boxers, open cut-off vests and —

Kris' mind obliterates.

All three of them are lewd, but Rizzo's the worst with it, delivering his raunchy line with gusto and eyefucking the camera before joining in the grinding, and Kris' brain is possibly missing.

He stares at the TV, open-mouthed, throat rapidly drying, and he can't breathe for a few seconds. His hand scrambles to his phone to disconnect the video from the TV before his parents look over and see what he's watching, because it's basically porn, that's what it is. Rizzo looked beyond filthy and Kris really needs to get out of the room before he embarrasses himself completely.

"I'm gonna go call PR and get details for tomorrow," Kris says. "Be right back!" He waves jauntily at his parents and kind of flees from the room. His mom looks oblivious but his dad looks a little suspicious. Kris has never been able to lie well to his father, but sometimes, needs must.

Kris barely makes it to his own room, two doors down the hall, and he's grateful his mom suggested it, because his apartment isn't big enough for them all to stay, and normally Kris would be psyched at having so many of his family members so close.

Right now, it's embarrassing. Kris falls against the inside of his hotel room door, and barely gets his hand inside his pants before he's coming harder than he possibly ever has. Kris sinks to his knees, and looks blankly at the evidence on his hand which states maybe it's not _not_ a big deal. It's not a _big_ deal, Kris tells himself. Just a little one.

* * *

 

Kris is kind of jealous that some of the guys got the Disney World gig and not him, but Zo's kids are thrilled, and Kris can't be sad about that. Besides, he's been on Jimmy Kimmel, and danced with Ellen and Rossy, and he doesn't know whether to be glad it's all on tape, because he doesn't remember a word of what he says. He doesn't think he goes red when Ellen mentions Rizzo, but it's a close call for sure.

There are more interviews and press appearances, some with Rizzo by his side, but Kris is too busy feeling like a human pinball to even enjoy that. It's probably for the best. Sometimes when he side-squints at Rizzo his brain helpfully superimposes the twerking and, oh god, Kris is in public, his brain is so mean to him.

Then as much as the appearances and interviews seem to drown them all, they recede like the wave they came in on, and Kris has time to breathe. It's a good thing. He has time to get his off-season training on schedule. He sets up his usual off-season meetings, to get his nutrition and training plan in place, and books a two-week vacation in Hawaii for after Thanksgiving because he kind of wants to swim with sharks again, and he joins in on the Cubs' group text chat regularly, but something just feels— _weird_. And that's even disregarding Hammer's 2017 option being declined, what the actual _fuck._

Outside of the vacation, Kris is supposed to be staying at home for the majority of the off-season, maybe looking at getting a place of his own in Las Vegas, but Kris manages three days of his routine — breakfast, cardio, weights, lunch, nap, swim, dinner, then something relaxing with his family — before he snaps and leaves a note in his parents' kitchen and drives back to Chicago.

Kris has been back in his apartment — cold but clean, thanks to his maid service — for maybe thirty minutes before his doorbell rings. Squinting, Kris is thankful he didn't immediately drops his pants (what, he lives alone in Chicago, pants are definitely not mandatory) as he heads to see who it is. When Kris flicks the security monitor on, he doesn't know whether he's surprised or not to see Rizzo there, beaming at the camera.

"Yo, dude," Rizzo says. "Buzz me in already, it's fucking freezing out here."

Kris stares at the monitor and presses the button to reply instead. "How did you even know I was here?"

"Magic," Rizzo says, rolling his eyes, so Kris makes a face back, unsure whether Rizzo can even see him, and presses the combination of keys to let him up.

Kris' fridge is mostly empty, but there's a few sealed bottles of water, so Kris scoops out two and puts them under his arm and heads back for the front door in time to hear Rizzo knocking on it, a jaunty rhythm that sounds a little like _Go Cubs Go,_ and _dammit,_ Rizzo, Kris had only just managed to get that out of his head.

"Thanks," Rizzo says, taking one of the bottles before Kris can even offer it. Rizzo's wearing a jacket that used to fit him, but it's strained now. Kris is baffled. Most athletes manage to lose muscle mass over a full season, but Rizzo's done the opposite. That contrariness is highly characteristic of him, Kris supposes. "Don't suppose you have any beer?"

Kris pulls a face. "Turns out I don't even like alcohol, man. Sorry."

Rizzo shoots Kris a quiet appraising sort of look, and just shrugs. "Guess it's better finding that out than waiting your whole life and then realizing this awesome thing existed that you could have been having the whole time, huh?"

Kris looks at him and tries not to stumble, because he kind of wants to say, _you mean with me not realizing until you kissed me that I'm probably bisexual and could have been hooking up with guys or girls this entire time_ and yeah, that's an awkward sentence just while it exists in Kris' head. It has no business being said aloud.

"I didn't even know until this morning I was coming back," Kris says instead, talking slowly just in case the words _hey how about you recreate that SNL skit in my bedroom_ jump into his sentence instead. "So how did you know I was even here?"  He starts to lead Rizzo into his sitting area.

"Love what you've not done with the place," Rizzo says, glancing around Kris' apartment, and Kris tries to resist the heat of embarrassment that wants to creep into his cheeks. He hasn't exactly decorated his apartment beyond a couple of awkward pieces of baseball memorabilia on his coffee table. This apartment isn't exactly his home. It's just where he sleeps in-between baseball games. The Cubs' clubhouse is his real home.

Kris thinks about Hammer's option not being considered and feels queasy for a moment, because what if he's traded? What if Rizzo is traded? What if they end up having to face each other across the field, instead of by each other's side?

"You changed the subject," Kris says, sitting on one of his couches and putting his unopened water bottle on the ground because he'll fiddle with the label if he doesn't.

"Oh," Rizzo says, and moves to sit down next to Kris instead of taking one of the many free seats, and Kris tries to pretend he doesn't feel happy at that decision. "Yeah, I, since the win we've all been stalked on Twitter, man. Some girls took a photo of you getting out your car. Gotta say, I've never seen so many heart emojis added to one of our candid stalker pics."

"Huh," Kris says. "You not going home for the off-season?"

Rizzo shrugs. "Probably. I went back for a day, it just— I felt—"

He looks at Kris, an uncertain expression on his face.

"Weird," Kris offers, because it's the word that worked for him.

"Really fucking weird," Rizzo says quickly, nodding. He shuffles, his leg knocking into Kris', the warmth instantly spreading right through Kris. "Soon as I saw you were back, I just—" He looks away, eyes tracking over Kris' empty breakfast bar like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, and Rizzo can't manage to find a satisfactory ending to his own sentence, because he shrugs instead.

"I was feeling kind of lonely so I'm glad you came," Kris says, quietly.

Rizzo looks at him and throws an arm around his shoulder, drawing him in closer. "And we can't have that, no way."

"I'm a Chicago sporting hero," Kris says. "It would be illegal to make a Cubby sad while they're in Chicago."

"It should be," Rizzo says, jostling Kris with the bulk of his body. "Hey, I meant to ask, did you see me on SNL?" Rizzo waggles his eyebrows, and Kris tries not to, he really does, but he blushes instantly. He's probably blushing all the way down his body. That's what it feels like. Rizzo's eyes catch on the color and his whole expression brightens. "Let me guess, you were achingly jealous, am I right?"

"Achingly _something,_ " Kris mutters, almost angry with it, although it's mostly deep agonizing embarrassment.

Rizzo's expression turns into something more considering. "Huh," he says, and his eyes flicker over Kris like he's a new kind of pitch that needs deciphering. "Well, isn't that something?"

Kris stares at him. "I don't know what you mean," he lies, but, oh, he's never been good at that.

"Sure," Rizzo says easily, and gets to his feet, using his strength to tug Kris up with him. He leans down and tangles his hand in Kris', and uses that to tug Kris into his orbit. His spare hand curls around Kris' cheek possessively. "Whatever you say," he adds, and Rizzo's voice is gentle, but the kiss that follows is firmer, and the touches as Rizzo guides them both to Kris' bedroom grow increasingly more sure.

* * *

It's his stomach growling that wakes Kris up, or maybe a vague pang of guilt. Next to him, Rizzo's sprawled out on his front on Kris' kingsize bed, starfishing. Kris' duvet ended up on the floor early in proceedings, and the bed sheet came loose sometime during; it lies tangled up on the bed, barely covering Rizzo's impressive credentials.

Kris looks over at Rizzo, thinking fond thoughts about how relaxed Rizzo looks when asleep, all the bounce and agitation of his energy during waking hours masked. It's not a day ending in day unless Kris has glanced at Rizzo, taken in his boundless energy and constantly shifting enthusiasm, and wondered vaguely whether Rizzo has an attention deficit disorder of some sort. It's all part of Rizzo's impossibly irresistible charm.

Kris' entire body aches pleasantly. The room's somewhat dark, so they must have been asleep for a while. Kris guesses he at least has a new method to wear Rizzo out if his infectious, unstoppable energy ever becomes too much to take.

Oh, but that's a plan for the future. That's— that's— that's Kris thinking about it too much. And he can't. If he keeps thinking about it, it'll become a big deal, and Rizzo will go from being someone who makes Kris' life better to becoming _necessary,_ and Kris can't think about that. Suddenly the bedroom seems too restrictive, and Kris needs to get out.

He clambers cautiously out of the bed, ruing the instant he leaves Rizzo's warmth, because his apartment is still cold; he fishes his pants from where they landed awkwardly on a side table, shimmies into them and pads out into the main open plan room of his apartment.

A flash of light grabs his attention and Kris realizes it's his cell phone, still lying on the chair he'd tossed it on when coming in. The screen is lit up with a list of missed calls from his family. Guiltiness at least pushes away thoughts about Rizzo, and Kris calls his Mom and takes the ten minute lecture about his behavior from her that is purely just worry.

"I just needed to—" Kris says after she demands a better explanation, but he trails off, because the real answer, _I needed to go to Chicago and have sex with my impossibly hot teammate, repeatedly_ is probably too much for his mom to take. "I needed a moment to breathe, Mom. I'm sorry for freaking you out."

"I'm just glad you're okay," his mom says, and chatters excitedly for a few minutes about how envious her friends in her book club were about Kris' success. Kris makes appropriately supportive noises at intervals, and then he has to fight not to squeak when Rizzo's strong, capable arms wrap around his waist from behind. Rizzo sure can be quiet when he wants to be. "Kris, are you sure you're okay?" his mom asks, breaking off in her narrative with a note of genuine concern.

"Fine," Kris lies, proud of his voice not shaking as Rizzo starts pressing kisses along his shoulder. "I, uh— I think that was my front doorbell. I gotta go, Mom, I'll call you later."

"Sure," his mom says, with a quizzical note as he cuts the call off and drops the phone. Kris doesn't have time to react otherwise, because Rizzo immediately tackles him to the nearest couch and holds him down with his weight.

"Bed was cold without you," Rizzo says, his breath hot on Kris' cheek and neck.

Kris looks up at him. "I just, y'know."

That's not a full sentence, but Rizzo doesn't seem to mind, just fills in the gaps anyway. "You were freaking out so you called your mom."

"Not true," Kris says.

Rizzo's face is nothing but skepticism. Hot, attractive skepticism.

"Fine, I was freaking out," Kris sighs.

Rizzo lets him up, but not far. Kris takes that moment to notice Rizzo is also forgoing a shirt, and he gets stuck on that sight for a moment, because _damn._ Kris isn't a slacker when it comes to looking good naked, but Rizzo has him beat by a mile. "It's just me, man. What's there to freak out about?" He leans in to press a kiss to Kris' shoulder and Kris tries not to melt.

"I was trying so hard for it not to become a big deal," Kris says.

"It?"

"Wanting you," Kris says.

"Ah."

"But I failed, and you're here, and it is a big deal. You are a big deal."

"Yeah I am," Rizzo says, and points at his own crotch, because he's never going to be the person in a locker room to let a dick joke slide. His expression softens at Kris' frustration. "We're both a big deal. That's why this works."

"This?"

"You and I," Rizzo says, gesturing between the both of them. "On and off the field."

"But… I dunno, man. I just—"

"You're overthinking it," Rizzo says. "It's the problem with you brainy types. Way too much thinking." He shuffles further into Kris' space, manhandling them closer together, and Kris' tension seeps away. He sags against Rizzo, almost sighing in relief. "See? I make you feel better, when I'm around."

"Yeah," Kris says.

"And you make me feel better, whenever you're around."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Rizzo confirms, nodding. "So that's just plain fact. Everything else in a relationship is just— window dressing. Things we make up to make it more difficult than it needs to be, because we're scared. That's it. That's what humans are, most of the time. Plain straight-up terrified." Rizzo shrugs. "All I know is when I'm with you, everything makes sense. So anything else my brain tries to interject, I shut it up."

Kris frowns. "I'm not sure I know how to do that."

Rizzo shrugs again. "So whenever it gets too much, just come to me. Let me shut your brain up for you."

Kris probably looks confused, but Rizzo kisses him again, pressing the answer of Kris' unasked question against his mouth, Rizzo's lips curled into a smug sort of smile, and _oh,_ yeah, that shuts Kris up for sure. Kris leans into the kiss and presses into the moment, letting the ease of it wash over him like the sound of a crowd, cheering in the distance.


End file.
